


amid the falling snow

by psikeval



Series: words, hands, hearts [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:33:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5901940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all need rest, but there is no time. The forces in Suledin Keep and the quarries can’t be allowed to rally against them; Cadash will use their momentum to take as much ground as she can before the templar camps can be fortified. At best, they have an hour before they push through the caves toward Drakon’s Rise.</p><p>If this brief respite is what the Inquisitor needs, Cassandra has no intention of stopping her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amid the falling snow

 

Advancing to Highgrove grants an excellent tactical advantage, the best they’ve had since crossing the borders of Emprise du Lion. Their position is now secure enough to bring more of their people forward, forces to occupy the mine and scouts to keep eyes on the red templars still entrenched to the south. The latter group is led by Harding, while the former sets up camp under the watchful eye of requisition officer Barrault.

Cadash, it seems, is celebrating the victory by starting a snowball fight with Sera. It’s hard to tell who started it, or which of them has the advantage, particularly when they stop to kiss at every opportunity, but Cassandra’s heart feels lighter watching them play, regardless.

They all worry about the burdens dropped on the Inquisitor’s shoulders to some degree, their scattered group in Skyhold keeping watchful eyes on her stolen hours of sleep, the carefully suppressed tremors of her left hand, the grey hairs gained since taking on her title. Sera, the Iron Bull and Varric in particular do their best to lift her spirits when they can, and Cassandra gladly leaves the task to them. She’s never had their knack for knowing what to say.

Downhill, Cadash laughs, a ragged and delighted sound, and lets herself be pinned against a tree.

Cassandra looks up at the sound of boots crunching over the nearby snow and sees Vivienne, head held high, her poise as perfect as it is unlikely. Sometimes it seems that comments on Vivienne’s lavish robes only inspire her to handle the terrain more expertly than any soldier.

The wound in Cassandra’s side throbs terribly whenever she tries to stand. Instead she remains where she is, seated upon a stone, and leans into the gloved hand Vivienne places against her cheek.

“Are you sure you’re quite all right, darling? We must be certain that wound isn’t infected.”

“Red lyrium lies in the templars, not their weapons. Their arrows are sharp as knives, but untainted.” She sighs grimly down at the freshly healed gash in her side, now turned to a nasty bruise. “It is painful, but I’m in no danger.”

Another hazard of the area, one she hasn’t had to consider for many months—after any length of time outdoors, they are blinded by the brightness of sunlight on snow. She hadn’t been able to see the fourth archer hidden in shadow until it was too late.

“Here,” says Vivienne, sitting down neatly beside her and folding Cassandra’s fingers around a small flask. She squeezes Cassandra’s hands gently, for either emphasis or affection. “We’ll have another batch soon. You should drink this.”

A regeneration potion, by the smell. Cassandra has always despised the taste, but it will more than likely serve her well, so she sighs and downs it all with a grimace.

Vivienne rewards her with a swift, short kiss. Even now she smells ever so faintly of perfume, her wind-chapped lips soft and her fingertips delicate against Cassandra’s neck, and Cassandra can’t say for certain if it’s this or the potion that’s slowly warming her from the inside.

At the reminder, Cassandra frowns again in the direction of Inquisitor Cadash, who’s gone back to hurling snowballs back and forth with Sera. Even at a distance, the weariness is clear to see in both of them. Sera’s voice is hoarse and she favors one leg, while the Inquisitor hardly lifts her tired arms, tossing snow so haphazardly it’s a miracle she hits anything at all.

Cadash has taken a beating since they arrived in Sahrnia, the demands on her both harsh and unrelenting—no sooner has she closed a rift than they are set upon by a red templar patrol, or a pack of wolves, possessed by demons, all in a cold so biting it’s hard to feel one’s hands in a fight. And despite it all, the Inquisitor still took the time to eliminate the camp of rebel mages, simply because she’d promised when Cassandra asked her to.

She’s not spoken a word of complaint, even when she all but buried her hands in a fire to regain feeling in her fingers, but the physical toll is clear nonetheless. Cadash looks haggard, weary, sporting a few days’ soft growth of beard that Sera keeps poking in delighted fascination.

(Every time, Astyth spares her a smile. That’s the sort of woman they’ve thrown in their lots with, and that’s why Cassandra knows they would follow her to the Fade all over again.)

They need rest, but there is no time. The forces in Suledin Keep and the mines can’t be allowed to rally against them; Cadash will use their momentum to take as much ground as she can before the templar camps can be fortified. At best, they have an hour before they push through the caves toward Drakon’s Rise.

If this brief respite is what the Inquisitor needs, Cassandra has no intention of stopping her.

“My dear,” says Vivienne, her touch brief and gentle on Cassandra’s knee. “I believe our tents are prepared. You should give yourself a moment to recover.”

Cassandra frowns at the now-empty flask in her hands. It smarts to admit she might not manage such a simple task, but: “I’m not sure how well I can walk to reach them, in this snow.”

“I’d be more than happy to assist, of course.”

“Ah.” She wets at her lips, lingering over the small cut left at the corner of her mouth from the fight with the mages. Or was it the second rift? Maker, it’s been a long day. Vivienne is still patiently waiting for an answer. “Yes. I would appreciate it.”

Vivienne goes to her uninjured side and helps her to rise, arm braced firmly around her shoulders as they make their way to the nearest tent. Luckily Cassandra’s face is already flushed with cold and exertion; even the most innocent of Vivienne’s touches are distracting, particularly in the open. Or perhaps that’s only Cassandra being carried away, too much a romantic even when her feelings are entirely inconvenient in the moment.

She does not, as she firmly reminds herself, swoon.

Inside, Vivienne lays her down upon a bedroll and helps her get comfortable, ever mindful of the tender spot on her side. Bracing herself on one arm, she brushes back Cassandra’s hair and bends to place a kiss on her forehead. “Rest now, darling.”

“I’ll try,” she mutters, shifting on the mat until the persistent ache in her spine subsides.

“Nonsense. I have every confidence in you. But if you’d like some assistance…”

“Perhaps," says Cassandra, and frowns, as if to glare her own uncertainty into submission. "I suppose, if you can.” She closes her eyes, exhales and then feels the soft brush of Vivienne’s mouth on her cheek, just under her jaw, and finally settling on her lips with intent, kissing her until Cassandra is breathless, boneless, utterly malleable. Her armor is carefully pried away, replaced by blankets and Vivienne’s own pillow.

She does drift off for a while, with Vivienne’s fingers combing gently through her hair, and wakes alone, wrapped so carefully in blankets that she can’t suppress a smile. When her armor is back in order, Cassandra steps outside to find Cadash on a recently hewn bench, sharpening the edge of her new and immense greataxe while Sera fills jars of elixirs by the fire.

Vivienne looks up from fastening her tall fur-lined boots.

“There you are, darling. Might we carry on? It looks as if there’ll be more snow this evening.”

Her tone is perfectly civil, light and detached with the slightest careful hint of impatience. On the face of it, the details are all wrong to make Cassandra feel so warm inside, so _cared for_ in a way she scarcely understands. Every step Vivienne takes is a move in the Game, every connection carefully plotted — including, one must assume, whatever lies between them — but at times, it’s as if she wants Cassandra badly enough to keep her away from the playing field entirely.

Outwardly, Cassandra merely inclines her head and picks up her shield from the ground.

“Whenever you’re ready, Inquisitor.”

 

 


End file.
